


Cards And Flowers On Your Window

by geckoholic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2556386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alison Choi runs a thingy mafia. Everyone profits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cards And Flowers On Your Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [totallybalanced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallybalanced/gifts).



> Based on [this tumblr post](http://jaegermasters.tumblr.com/post/98636998801/blame-my-muses-apfelgranate) and subsequent crying at each other on twitter about it. **AUish in so far as that Pentecost survived** , but shhh, just go with it; this is a small thing written to cheer up a friend, and had I insisted on giving all the backstory on that I wouldn't have gotten it done. He's alive while Chuck still died, that's the only relevant change. 
> 
> Beta-read by dotmumble, and given a final once over after the fact by yohkobennington. Thank you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Shadow Of The Day" by Linkin Park.

Alison Choi is, and always has been, a resourceful woman. It takes a certain skill set to get through the impending apocalypse without ever running out of eyeliner or anti-frizz shampoo, and Alison has it. She knows how to get her hands on things others didn’t even know still existed, and she knows how to make the most out of it. Bartering has become her second nature, and she’s damn good at it.

 

***

 

In the weeks since Pitfall, Raleigh grew to love watching Mako work. The Jaeger program is a thing of the past now, the last of them lost during their final mission and the threat that required them gone, but the technology is still there. He’s not following the developments himself, only catches what Mako tells him about, but there’s effort to embed some of the knowledge they gained from the war in civil science. Mako still has the work bench in her quarters covered in blue prints and parts and half-done inventions, and many an afternoon passes with her fiddling away on them and him watching her do so.

It would be weird, he thinks, if she’d be anyone else. If they’d be a normal, random couple. But with the way they’re living in each other’s heads, silence isn’t a problem. There’s no real need to talk.

And so he sits there, on her bed, and reads a book about Japanese poetry, old and frayed, the printing on the spine barely legible, looking up every so often to see what she’s doing. He wants to brush up on his Japanese, so he’s able to talk to her in her native language. He could always hold a conversation that didn’t venture past friendly small talk, but with Mako, that’s not to enough.

She raised her eyebrows at him when he started to raid her bookshelf. She shakes her head at him when he reads the same poem over and over again until it clicks, until it makes sense beyond the words on the page. Not right now though; she’s too immersed in her work to notice anything else, be it his stubborn attempts at teaching himself the finer points of Japanese syntax or how he peers over the edge of the book to see her poke at a circuit board with a screwdriver, her tongue caught between her teeth, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Then she curses under her breath and puts the circuit board down, measured and controlled but with a sort of restrained energy that tells him she’d much rather throw it across the room.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Mako huffs. “I’m stuck. There’s something missing. I tried to replace it, but I can’t.”

“And what exactly is missing?”

She inclines her head, which is Mako for _you’re cute and I love you, but you have no idea what it actually is that I’m doing_. Raleigh holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m no engineer, but I’ve been a pilot too and I know a thing or two about engines. Try me.”

Mako picks the circuit board back up and points at a blueprint that’s tacked to the wall behind her workbench. “I need this exact type of switch to circumvent the power supply in the relay. A small thing, really, but hard to find an available one nowadays because it’s used in almost everything and production can't catch up yet.”

The next morning, while Mako is out for breakfast with Pentecost, Raleigh snatches the circuit board and the blueprint off the bench and marches up to Alison’s office. He puts them both in front of her, points at where the relay is in the print and where it’s missing in reality. “Can you get one of these? Please?”

Alison picks the blueprint up, studies it, then nods. “Yeah. But it’ll cost you. They’re rare, because – “

“They’re used in almost everything, I know.” He plummets in the chair in front of her desk and sighs. “It’s for Mako. What do you want for it?”

Leaning back in her own, much nicer chair, Alison crosses her arms. “Hmm. Leg warmers. And a onesie. The good wool, not any of that synthetic shit.” When he tries to interrupt, she raises a finger to stop him. “I know you keep a stack. It’s gonna be cold soon, and something tells me fixing the heating in the private quarters still isn’t on top of the good Marshal’s priorities.”

Raleigh weighs his options, but Alison is the only one in the Shatterdome who’ll hand out spare parts without going through the official channels and waiting six to eight weeks for a delivery that might not even be complete. “Okay. Fine. Give me three days.”

“Make that a week,” Alison replies. “I can’t just pull these things out of thin air either.”

 

***

 

Once Raleigh closed the door behind himself, Alison produces a key from a small pocket in her jeans and unlocks a drawer in her desk. She counts the switches in it, puts one aside for him to pick up in a few days, locks it back up, and smiles to herself.

See, the thing is, part of being a good barterer is to never let on just exactly how good you are, and pretend to everyone you’re doing them a personal favor. People get less cooperative when they think they’re being played. Not like Alison would ever do that; she genuinely enjoys getting people things they want, or even need. It’s just that she also enjoys having a steady flow of disposable diapers for her child that negates the need to wash the woolen ones or getting to surprise her husband with wine and chocolate for his birthday. The little things are what make life worth living, after all, now more than ever.

 

***

 

Apocalypse or no, one thing will forever remain unchanged: if there's one person capable of driving Hermann within hair's width of losing his sanity over a conversation about lab supplies, it's Newt. Especially if it's one they already had several times that same week, and that ends in shouting every single time. 

They helped save the world together, in a much more hands on way than Hermann ever planned for – or was strictly comfortable with, if he's honest – but just as soon as they returned to their respective labs and got back to work, things went back to normal. Which, not to be misunderstood. Hermann likes their normal a lot more than he'd ever let on. But the fact remains: Newt drives him up a wall. Daily. Sometimes twice. 

"You seriously don't get why this is so important." It's a statement, not a question, and Newt underlines it with an expression that could be found in the lexicon to illustrate _baffled_. 

"No," Hermann replies. "I really don't. Why can't you just get a few cleaning rags, dish soap, and a bucket of water like everyone else?" 

Newt wrinkles his nose. "Everyone else doesn't work with entrails. Entrails that have been soaked in formaldehyde for years, in some cases, and will start decaying just as soon as I get them out to work with them. I spend my days arms-deep in dead animals. Literally. The fluids get everywhere. It's messy. If I don't clean that up properly, _our_ lab will begin to stink like the dumpster behind a restaurant within _days_. So no, dish soap really won't cut it." 

He takes a breath at the end of his rant, and Hermann rolls his eyes. He noticed the rare dig at _their lab_ – which it only ever is when Newt wants something – but he refuses to be baited. "Antiseptic cleaning agents are restricted to medical facilities only. Jodie was right to tell you she can't share hers anymore. The infirmary needs them far more than you do." 

And then Newt gets that look – the same one he had before he went and nearly fried his brain with a makeshift drift machine, the one he always has when he wants something and gets told he can't have it. His eyes roam the room, stopping at a row of his specimen jars. 

Hermann finds that unsettling. He briefly shifts his weight from his good leg to his cane, and back before he can lose his balance. That's what the last thing he needs; to fall on his face while trying to make a point. Newt would never let him life that one down. "Sprinkle in some alcohol then." 

The glare Newt gives him is positively scalding. "You _know_ I only get a very limited supply of that, and I doesn't make the stink go away. Everything will just smell like decay drenched in alcohol, and not only like decay. Jeez. Number cruncher. No idea about actual science." 

"There's no need to insult me, and it will certainly not further your argument," Hermann replies. He grabs his coat. One of them has to be the mature adult between them and leave before this escalates, and experience shows that Newt is very, very unlikely to fill that position. "I will go down to the mess hall for a late breakfast. I hope you'll at least try to see reason when I get back."

But Hermann doesn't go to the mess hall. Instead, he pays a visit to Alison Choi. 

She greets him with a smile. "Doctor Gottlieb. What can I do for you?" 

He shuffles his feet. Stupid – he's asking for a cleaning agent, not a drug trade. "I'm afraid we have a need down in the lab that the official channels won't fill." 

"I see." Her expression changes, goes all business. "What do you need?" 

"Antiseptic cleaning agent. The one that smells like citrus, preferably, you can ask Jodie from medical what it is, but that's optional. He will have to do with something else, in a pinch." He sighs. “Newt won't shut up about it. Please tell me you can help us out, otherwise I might strangle him at some point.”

Alison nods. "Should be doable. But I gotta ask for a favor in return. This ain't a charity." 

 

***

 

A week passes, and by the end of it Alison Choi is a pair of baby undies and a set of leg warmers richer. Hermann asked for a short extension on the coffee – whole beans, homegrown by his family – and Alison isn't Falcone. She _is_ running some sort of mafia, she supposes, but she's mostly dealing with her friends. She's not going to demand interest when someone needs a few more days. 

Tendo has long since stopped questioning the origin of all her little acquisitions, and when he comes home that evening he barely raises an eyebrow at the new woolens that have magically appeared on their clothes line. He does take her aside while she's doing the dishes later, grinning fondly, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Raleigh must really like you, given how many of his little projects end up in our drawers.” 

Alison swats him with a towel and tells him to mind his on business. 

 

*** 

 

Hong Kong winters are a far cry from what Raleigh got used to growing up, in Canada or Eastern Europe, but when there's t-shirt weather most of the year, you get used to that. Single digit temperatures will suddenly have you freeze and shiver and wear an extra jacket. 

He's been out with Mako, taking a stroll around the city, stretching their legs after a day of being cooped up in briefings. Sometimes it feels like that's all they ever do these days: talk about things that have been done or could be done or shouldn't have been done. Mako keeps telling him they'll find something real to do for him again eventually, after the decision makers settled on an idea of what do to with their specific skills and knowledge, how best to gain from them, but patience has never been one of his virtues. Not in situations like this, with his whole future – _their_ future – on the line. He wants to know if they're going to stay here, where they're going to go if they don't, and most importantly, if they'll be able to go there together. 

Mako wraps her arm around his, drawing him closer, fitting herself to his side while they walk down the loading bay in perfect sync. A few months ago, she wouldn't have done that at all, and even now he knows she's only doing it because she must have sensed his unease. She's not the type to allow public displays of affection, let alone initiate them, and he forces the fought of them having to separate out of his mind. They'll find a way. 

With her body pressed to his, he slows down his steps, letting his eyes roam. He suppresses a flinch when his they catch sight of Marshal Pentecost talking to a technician at the other end of the bay. The Marshal hasn't tried to run him off with a shotgun or anything, but Raleigh is still acutely aware that he's dating the man's adopted daughter, and it's only sensible for that to inspire a certain amount of fear. 

Then he gets a second look, and has do bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Pentecost is wearing a scarf. Not any scarf – one Raleigh made, and later traded off to Alison for a refill of Mako's hair dye.

Despite the fact that the Marshal basically kept the program running with bartering on a much bigger scale, Raleigh somehow never thought he'd stoop low enough to employ the same technique to every day items just like the rest of them. He assumed Pentecost would be above such worldly concerns. Apparently, he was wrong. 

Raleigh tries his darnedest to school his expression into indifference, but of course Mako notices. She pinches him between the ribs, gently, to make him face her, and when he does her eyes are wide with curiosity. Before he can really stop himself, Raleigh's eyes fly towards the Marshal. Mako follows his line of sight, and a smile begins to curl her lips. 

“Don't tell him you know,” she says. “He'll just glare at you and deny everything. It's in everyone's best interest if we keep this to ourselves.” 

“Yeah,” Raleigh simply replies and draws her closer still. He never told her about Alison's side job, or about the little deals he made to give her things, but he's not surprised she knows about it anyway. She's perceptive, and she's her father's daughter. It'd take a much better liar than Raleigh to have either of them fooled. 

 

***

 

The first time Marshal Pentecoast showed up in her little office and cleared his throat, Alison thought she'd be in for a dressing-down. She's worked under him for years, and definitely long enough to know that, while he's a sneaky one himself, he doesn't like it when someone works behind his back. Which Alison doesn't do. Not intentionally. She just doesn't go and boast about her little trade business, that's all. 

She glanced up, ready for a full confession without so much as a word from him – he has that effect – but the expression on his face wasn't the one he wears for rebuttals. It was drastically different. It was... concerned. Worried. A little desperate, perhaps, as much as Stacker Pentecost could ever look the part. 

“I need your help,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I have a parcel. And official channels... Well, I don't want it to take four months and be opened twice on the way.” 

Alison nodded, only just then noticing the small bag he carried. “I understand. Where's it to? I can't promise anything, but I could talk to a few people.” 

Pentecost took the bag and laid it onto her desk, carefully, as if its content was delicate and fragile. “Australia.” 

She nodded again, swallowed around a lump in her throat. Hansen went back home after Pitfall. Not immediately, but by the time he did take his leave... They all lost something to this war, but he'd lost more than most. Alison is sure he'll come back eventually, but she also gets why he had to leave for a while. She's a parent too. 

Dipping his head, giving a half-nod of his own, Pentecost left. Alison never peeked into the parcel, and she didn't ask for anything in return. Three weeks later, she received confirmation that the package had been delivered, and passed it on accordingly. Another two weeks, and she got a note from Hansen in reply. She'd bribed the cleaning crew to place it in Pentecost's quarter, alongside with a scarf she had Raleigh make so she could give it to Tendo. 

She isn't in it solely for her own gain. Surely, it's a convenient side effect. But at the end of the day, a few new wools or some rare commodity isn't the only thing that makes times like these easier to bear. Sometimes it's a relieved smile and a whispered _thank you_ in the mess hall the next day, and the knowledge that she made a friend's grief sting a little bit less.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Embrace the World in Gray (The La Cosetta Nostra remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181946) by [melannen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melannen/pseuds/melannen)




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